The Portrait of A Lady (58 page)

Osmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle on the other knee; he clasped his ankle in his hand, familiarly, and gazed awhile before him. ‘‘This kind of thing doesn't find me unprepared. It's what I educated her for. It was all for this—that when such a case should come up she should do what I prefer.''

‘‘I am not afraid that she will not do it.''

‘‘Well then, where is the hitch?''

‘‘I don't see any. But all the same, I recommend you not to get rid of Mr. Rosier. Keep him on hand; he may be useful.''

‘‘I can't keep him. Do it yourself.''

‘‘Very good; I will put him into a corner and allow him so much a day.'' Madame Merle had, for the most part, while they talked, been glancing about her; it was her habit, in this situation, just as it was her habit to interpose a good many blank-looking pauses. A long pause followed the last words I have quoted; and before it was broken again, she saw Pansy come out of the adjoining room, followed by Edward Rosier. Pansy advanced a few steps and then stopped and stood looking at Madame Merle and at her father.

‘‘He has spoken to her,'' Madame Merle said, simply, to Osmond.

Her companion never turned his head. ‘‘So much for your belief in his promises. He ought to be horse-whipped.''

‘‘He intends to confess, poor little man!''

Osmond got up; he had now taken a sharp look at his daughter. ‘‘It doesn't matter,'' he murmured, turning away.

Pansy after a moment came up to Madame Merle with her little manner of unfamiliar politeness. This lady's reception of her was not more intimate; she simply, as she rose from the sofa, gave her a friendly smile.

‘‘You are very late,'' said the young girl, gently.

‘‘My dear child, I am never later than I intend to be.'' Madame Merle had not got up to be gracious to Pansy; she moved towards Edward Rosier. He came to meet her, and, very quickly, as if to get it off his mind— ‘‘I have spoken to her!'' he whispered.

‘‘I know it, Mr. Rosier.''

‘‘Did she tell you?''

‘‘Yes, she told me. Behave properly for the rest of the evening, and come and see me to-morrow at a quarter past five.''

She was severe, and in the manner in which she turned her back to him there was a degree of contempt which caused him to mutter a decent imprecation.

He had no intention of speaking to Osmond; it was neither the time nor the place. But he instinctively wandered towards Isabel, who sat talking with an old lady. He sat down on the other side of her; the old lady was an Italian, and Rosier took for granted that she understood no English.

‘‘You said just now you wouldn't help me,'' he began, to Mrs. Osmond. ‘‘Perhaps you will feel differently when you know—when you know—''

He hesitated a little.

‘‘When I know what?'' Isabel asked, gently.

‘‘That she is all right.''

‘‘What do you mean by that?''

‘‘Well, that we have come to an understanding.''

‘‘She is all wrong,'' said Isabel. ‘‘It won't do.''

Poor Rosier gazed at her half pleadingly, half angrily; a sudden flush testified to his sense of injury.

‘‘I have never been treated so,'' he said. ‘‘What is there against me, after all? That is not the way I am usually considered. I could have married twenty times.''

‘‘It's a pity you didn't. I don't mean twenty times, but once, comfortably,'' Isabel added, smiling kindly. ‘‘You are not rich enough for Pansy.''

‘‘She doesn't care a straw for one's money.''

‘‘No, but her father does.''

‘‘Ah yes, he has proved that!'' cried the young man.

Isabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady, without saying anything; and he occupied himself for the next ten minutes in pretending to look at Gilbert Osmond's collection of miniatures, which were neatly arranged on a series of small velvet screens. But he looked without seeing; his cheek burned; he was too full of his sense of injury. It was certain that he had never been treated that way before; he was not used to being thought not good enough. He knew how good he was, and if such a fallacy had not been so pernicious he could have laughed at it. He looked about again for Pansy, but she had disappeared, and his main desire was now to get out of the house. Before doing so he spoke to Isabel again; it was not agreeable to him to reflect that he had just said a rude thing to her—the only point that would now justify a low view of him.

‘‘I spoke of Mr. Osmond as I shouldn't have done, awhile ago,'' he said. ‘‘But you must remember my situation.''

‘‘I don't remember what you said,'' she answered, coldly.

‘‘Ah, you are offended, and now you will never help me.''

She was silent an instant, and then, with a change of tone: ‘‘It's not that I won't; I simply can't!'' Her manner was almost passionate.

‘‘If you could—just a little,'' said Rosier, ‘‘I would never again speak of your husband save as an angel.''

‘‘The inducement is great,'' said Isabel gravely— inscrutably, as he afterwards, to himself, called it; and she gave him, straight in the eyes, a look which was also inscrutable. It made him remember, somehow, that he had known her as a child; and yet it was keener than he liked, and he took himself off.

38

HE went to see Madame Merle on the morrow, and to his surprise she let him off rather easily. But she made him promise that he would stop there until something should have been decided. Mr. Osmond had had higher expectations; it was very true that as he had no intention of giving his daughter a portion, such expectations were open to criticism, or even, if one would, to ridicule. But she would advise Mr. Rosier not to take that tone; if he would possess his soul in patience he might arrive at his felicity. Mr. Osmond was not favourable to his suit, but it would not be a miracle if he should gradually come round. Pansy would never defy her father, he might depend upon that, so nothing was to be gained by precipitation. Mr. Osmond needed to accustom his mind to an offer of a sort that he had not hitherto entertained, and this result must come of itself—it was useless to try to force it. Rosier remarked that his own situation would be in the meanwhile the most uncomfortable in the world, and Madame Merle assured him that she felt for him. But, as she justly declared, one couldn't have everything one wanted; she had learned that lesson for herself. There would be no use in his writing to Gilbert Osmond, who had charged her to tell him as much. He wished the matter dropped for a few weeks, and would himself write when he should have anything to communicate which it would please Mr. Rosier to hear.

‘‘He doesn't like your having spoken to Pansy. Ah, he doesn't like it at all,'' said Madame Merle.

‘‘I am perfectly willing to give him a chance to tell me so!''

‘‘If you do that he will tell you more than you care to hear. Go to the house, for the next month, as little as possible, and leave the rest to me.''

‘‘As little as possible? Who is to measure that?''

‘‘Let me measure it. Go on Thursday evenings with the rest of the world; but don't go at all at odd times, and don't fret about Pansy. I will see that she understands everything. She's a calm little nature; she will take it quietly.''

Edward Rosier fretted about Pansy a good deal, but he did as he was advised, and waited for another Thursday evening before returning to the Palazzo Roccanera. There had been a party at dinner, so that although he went early the company was already tolerably numerous. Osmond, as usual, was in the first room, near the fire, staring straight at the door, so that, not to be distinctly uncivil, Rosier had to go and speak to him.

‘‘I am glad that you can take a hint,'' Pansy's father said, slightly closing his keen, conscious eye.

‘‘I take no hints. But I took a message, as I supposed it to be.''

‘‘You took it? Where did you take it?''

It seemed to poor Rosier that he was being insulted, and he waited a moment, asking himself how much a true lover ought to submit to.

‘‘Madame Merle gave me, as I understood it, a message from you—to the effect that you declined to give me the opportunity I desire—the opportunity to explain my wishes to you.''

Rosier flattered himself that he spoke rather sternly.

‘‘I don't see what Madame Merle has to do with it. Why did you apply to Madame Merle?''

‘‘I asked her for an opinion—for nothing more. I did so because she had seemed to me to know you very well.''

‘‘She doesn't know me so well as she thinks,'' said Osmond.

‘‘I am sorry for that, because she has given me some little ground for hope.''

Osmond stared into the fire for a moment.

‘‘I set a great price on my daughter.''

‘‘You can't set a higher one than I do. Don't I prove it by wishing to marry her?''

‘‘I wish to marry her very well,'' Osmond went on, with a dry impertinence which, in another mood, poor Rosier would have admired.

‘‘Of course I pretend that she would marry well in marrying me. She couldn't marry a man who loves her more; or whom, I may venture to add, she loves more.''

‘‘I am not bound to accept your theories as to whom my daughter loves,'' Osmond said, looking up with a quick, cold smile.

‘‘I am not theorizing. Your daughter has spoken.''

‘‘Not to me,'' Osmond continued, bending forward a little and dropping his eyes to his boot-toes.

‘‘I have her promise, sir!'' cried Rosier, with the sharpness of exasperation.

As their voices had been pitched very low before, such a note attracted some attention from the company. Osmond waited till this little movement had subsided; then he said very quickly: ‘‘I think she has no recollection of having given it.''

They had been standing with their faces to the fire, and after he had uttered these last words Osmond turned round again to the room. Before Rosier had time to rejoin he perceived that a gentleman—a stranger— had just come in, unannounced, according to the Roman custom, and was about to present himself to the master of the house. The latter smiled blandly, but somewhat blankly; the visitor was a handsome man, with a large, fair beard—evidently an Englishman.

‘‘You apparently don't recognize me,'' he said, with a smile that expressed more than Osmond's.

‘‘Ah yes, now I do; I expected so little to see you.''

Rosier departed, and went in direct pursuit of Pansy. He sought her, as usual, in the neighbouring room, but he again encountered Mrs. Osmond in his path. He gave this gracious lady no greeting—he was too righteously indignant; but said to her crudely: ‘‘Your husband is awfully cold-blooded.''

She gave the same mystical smile that he had noticed before.

‘‘You can't expect every one to be as hot as yourself.''

‘‘I don't pretend to be cold, but I am cool. What has he been doing to his daughter?''

‘‘I have no idea.''

‘‘Don't you take any interest?'' Rosier demanded, feeling that she too was irritating.

For a moment she answered nothing. Then—‘‘No!'' she said abruptly, and with a quickened light in her eye which directly contradicted the word.

‘‘Excuse me if I don't believe that. Where is Miss Osmond?''

‘‘In the corner, making tea. Please leave her there.''

Rosier instantly discovered the young girl, who had been hidden by intervening groups. He watched her, but her own attention was entirely given to her occupation.

‘‘What on earth has he done to her?'' he asked again imploringly. ‘‘He declares to me that she has given me up.''

‘‘She has not given you up,'' Isabel said, in a low tone, without looking at him.

‘‘Ah, thank you for that! Now I will leave her alone as long as you think proper!''

He had hardly spoken when he saw her change colour, and became aware that Osmond was coming towards her, accompanied by the gentleman who had just entered. He thought the latter, in spite of the advantage of good looks and evident social experience, was a little embarrassed.

‘‘Isabel,'' said Osmond, ‘‘I bring you an old friend.''

Mrs. Osmond's face, though it wore a smile, was, like her old friend's, not perfectly confident. ‘‘I am very happy to see Lord Warburton,'' she said. Rosier turned away, and now that his talk with her had been interrupted, felt absolved from the little pledge he had just taken. He had a quick impression that Mrs. Osmond would not notice what he did.

To do him justice, Isabel for some time quite ceased to observe him. She had been startled; she hardly knew whether she were glad or not. Lord Warburton, however, now that he was face to face with her, was plainly very well pleased; his frank grey eye expressed a deep, if still somewhat shy, satisfaction. He was larger, stouter than of yore, and he looked older; he stood there very solidly and sensibly.

‘‘I suppose you didn't expect to see me,'' he said; ‘‘I have only just arrived. Literally, I only got here this evening. You see I have lost no time in coming to pay you my respects; I knew you were at home on Thursdays.''

‘‘You see the fame of your Thursdays has spread to England,'' Osmond remarked, smiling, to his wife.

‘‘It is very kind of Lord Warburton to come so soon; we are greatly flattered,'' Isabel said.